Silence rained down at the gravity of what they had to do. Of the thousands upon thousands who were going to die in this campaign.
“Then we go in with a larger force,” Larkin said. It was the only choice.
“I will go with you,” Sela said.
They all looked at her aghast.
“Absolutely not,” Larkin said.
Sela locked eyes with Denan. “When the time comes, you’ll need me.”
He didn’t seem to know what to say to that. Larkin didn’t care what anyone had to say. Her sister wasn’t going anywhere.
The boat slowed as it approached Larkin and Denan’s hometree, which contained five chambers—large clusters of bedrooms with an attached bathing room. The chambers were made of a frame—some square, others round. The round ones reminded her of upside-down flowers. At the top center of each frame was a medallion, not unlike the one Larkin wore around her neck. These medallions created a magical pane, the density of which could be adjusted by a twist of the hand.
Presently, all but the doorpanes were opaque, which meant they were impassable by even a breeze. The hometree had been locked down.
Light, it’s going to be hot inside.
West waited at the dock that spread out from the hometree’s roots. He’d trimmed down his once-bushy sideburns. The wind made his glorious mustache snap like a flag. The three fingers on the outside of his right hand were gone, taken by the Wraith King. Unable to grip a sword with that hand, he’d been practicing with his left.
He still wasn’t good enough to hold his own in a fight, but being a soldier was the only thing he knew. Larkin owed him her life, and he was one of the few people she trusted implicitly. So despite Denan and Tam’s disapproval, she’d named West one of her personal guards—a job he took just as seriously as his previous job as her jailer.
“The tree has been thoroughly searched, my king,” West called out to them.
King. Word had spread of Netrish’s death. The guards maneuvered the boat into the dock. Denan sent his pages off with the missives.
West’s arched mustache covered his lips, but she could still tell he was frowning at the blood on Larkin’s cream dress. “My queen, I should have been there.”
Queen. Larkin’s guts twisted at the title. “You couldn’t have done anything.” He was a night guard. He should be sleeping.
Denan’s jaw clenched hard enough to break teeth. “An attempt was made on Larkin’s life. I want security doubled.”
“It was just an errant bolt,” Larkin protested.
“I’m not taking any chances,” Denan said.
The soldiers tied up the boat. Tam paired them up, and they headed to their destinations at a jog. By the time they were all in place, there would be thirty-four guards in their tree. The thought of all those people watching and judging her behind their implacable masks made her uneasy.
Alorica handed Sela up to West. Sela started up the dock without waiting for Larkin, a pair of guards on her heels. She was obviously still angry. Denan held out a hand and hauled Larkin up. Tam and Alorica bent their heads together, murmuring something too soft for Larkin to make out.
Denan searched the faces around him until he found their butler, Unger, coming down the dock toward them. He was a tall, thin man with hollow cheeks and a sickly pallor. “See Cook Viscott prepares food and hot water,” Denan said. “Bring it to the common room.”
Unger bowed. “Yes, sire.” He directed another pair of servants as he headed for the cooking platform.
Tam nodded to Alorica and hopped back into a small boat. “We’ve decided to move in. I’m going to round up a couple friends to help bring our things here.”
Alorica’s expression dared them to argue.
Denan seemed about to do just that—Tam and Alorica had their own hometree—but then he thought better of it and shot Larkin a questioning glance. She couldn’t deny that having Tam around would make them both safer. And at this point, what was two more people? At least these two people cared about her.
She shrugged. “I suppose we have plenty of room.”
Denan wagged his finger at Tam. “All right, but no waking me up for your late-night mischief.”
Tam gave a playful scoff. “Late-night mischief is always better with friends.”
Denan rolled his eyes. “We’re not in the academy anymore.”
“Old man!” Tam shot back.
Denan was trying hard not to smile—it was part of their game. Whoever smiled first lost.
“We’re going to need a raise.” Tam shot Larkin his customary wink. Gratitude swelled for this friend of Denan’s who’d become just as dear to her. And not just for his protection, but for his bright burst of levity in the dark.
Alorica rolled her eyes, but she was clearly trying not to laugh.
West turned to Larkin. “If you don’t mind, my queen, I haven’t slept yet this morning.” West insisted on the night watch. Said that was when he was the most useful.
Larkin liked that he asked her instead of Denan. “Of course.”
He bowed and took his leave, heading to his small platform in the higher boughs.
Alorica took the lead as Denan and Larkin headed up the stairs.
Denan dropped his voice so the others couldn’t hear. “Larkin, you attacking Garrot, that cannot happen again. You risked everything.”
He was right. Shame slammed down on her. “It’s just . . . seeing him again. And I was so sure he killed the king.” Part of her still was, no matter what Sela said.
“I know. And I’m not angry. But we cannot be the aggressors. We cannot be the reason this alliance fails.”
“I’m sorry.” She meant it.
He nodded.
Where the trunk met the boughs was the main platform. The curving roof peaked around an ahlea medallion that created the magical panels. Two guards stood on their side of the doorpane; there was always one enchantress and one enchanter. Both bowed.
“Which chambers would you like us to take?” Alorica asked.
Denan shrugged. “Pick an empty one.”
Alorica nodded and set off. Larkin and Denan stepped through the doorpane, a feeling like walking through liquid glass. It was swelteringly hot inside. From the supports hung a chandelier of potted lampents, their soft, sweet scent as soothing as their light. More lampents hung before the supports.
There was a long, rectangular table by the door, comfortable couches and chairs around the fireplace, a game table by the far pane, and a few chests of games, toys, or blankets scattered around the room. Four-month-old baby Brenna wiggled on a blanket, brightly painted wooden toys around her.
Across the room, Sela looked out a transparent pane, the sight of the towering White Tree taking up the view. It also let in a breeze, which licked across Larkin’s sweat-damp skin. She sighed in relief.
Sela clasped her hands behind her back, eyes narrowed like some great lady with the weight of their survival on her shoulders. Larkin bit back a sigh. Sela should be on the floor playing with Brenna.
“We need to keep it shut, Sela,” Denan said. “There’s still an assassin out there.”
Larkin wanted to argue, but he was right.
Frowning, Sela closed the pane but didn’t move away.
Kit in her hand, Mama stepped into the room and marched toward Larkin. Her eyes caught on the blood splattered on her side and soaking into her hem. Her mouth tightened into a thin line.
“I’m all right, Mama.”
Mama set her kit on the dining table and tugged at the bandage knots over her daughter’s upper arm. Larkin winced as the bandage stuck to the wound.
“Change Brenna, will you, Denan?” Mama jerked her chin toward the clean swaddling on the chair—clearly what Mama had been intending to do before Unger had her fetch her kit.
Denan shot Larkin a sympathetic glance.
Mama poured water into a shallow basin. “Whose blood is on your face?”
It was on her face? Larkin saw it again. The kin
g’s expression. The terror of a man who knew he was dying. His warm blood blinding her. She’d completely forgotten it in the ensuing chaos.
“The king is dead,” Denan said. “Killed by an assassin.”
“I heard.” Mama pulled out a chair at the table, motioned for Larkin to sit, and settled her arm in the hot water. She poured water over the stuck bandage to soften the dried blood.
Denan knelt before Brenna. “Hello, sweet. Are you ready for a change?”
Brenna kicked her feet harder and let out a coo. She startled, as if the sound surprised her. Denan chuckled softly and unwrapped her.
“Who else was hurt?” Mama mixed up a pain powder in a cup.
Larkin drank the bitter draft, which left her nauseous. She stared blankly at the twisting grain of the wood beneath her hand. “No one. Thanks to Sela.” She quickly told Mama about the new magic Sela had displayed, as well as the cost. Denan spoke softly to a fussing Brenna; she didn’t much like being undressed or the cool water. Mama poured more water over Larkin’s wound and shot worried looks Sela’s way.
Shushing Brenna, Denan wrapped her in clean swaddling. Larkin watched her husband with her baby sister, a tenderness swelling within her. He’d always been so sweet with the little ones. He would be a wonderful father.
If he didn’t fall to shadow first.
Larkin wouldn’t let that happen. She would take the fight to Valynthia and destroy the Black Tree, which would free her husband of the blight and secure her family’s safety.
“Garrot is behind this.” Mama pulled things out of her kit. “Mark me.”
“It was the wraiths,” Sela said without turning from the opaque window, “working through druids or pipers. I don’t yet know which.”
Larkin knew from his expression what her husband was thinking. “If that’s true, then one of our own people could have murdered the king.” We may have a traitor in our midst.
“And no clues as to who he or she is.” Denan washed his hands, lifted Brenna onto his shoulder, and stood. Halfway up, he winced. A beat later, the pain was gone from his face.
It was too late; Larkin noticed. “Denan?”
He avoided her gaze and rubbed Brenna’s back to settle her fussing. “It’s all right. Lots of men have injuries that never fully heal.”
But most of those injuries didn’t carry the risk of turning them into a monster. Larkin fiddled nervously with her amulet.
Pouring more water, Mama tugged carefully at the bandaging, which made the ache spread up Larkin’s neck and down her fingertips. The stained cloth finally came away, fresh blood running in trickles and drips into the basin. It swirled like dancing ribbons that dissipated, leaving the water pink.
The pain made Larkin remember Magalia’s tinctures. Larkin retrieved them from her pocket, drank one, and handed the other to Mama. “Magalia sent these.”
She tugged off the cork and sniffed. “I’ll have to ask her for the recipe.” Thumbs planted on either edge of the wound, Mama pulled it apart and poured the tincture. Larkin dug her fingers into the table to keep from jerking away.
“Twelve stitches or so should do it,” Mama proclaimed.
Unger came in with a tray filled with the stiff, glossy leaves of the hometree, which the pipers used for everything from plates to shrouds for the dead. They even pulped the fibers to make clothes.
Taking a leaf, Denan loaded it with flat nala bread, smoked fish, and crunchy lake greens. He drizzled a tangy cream sauce and took a bite. Larkin’s mouth watered, but there wasn’t any point in eating until Mama had finished.
Unger set about pouring them each a glass of rainwater.
Brenna on his lap, Denan ate hungrily—neither he nor Larkin had bothered with the lunch waiting for them after the ceremony. He looked over his shoulder at Sela. “Cook Viscott made you some sugared berries.”
Sela didn’t seem to hear him. With such plentiful food, Larkin and Mama had put on weight since coming to the Alamant, while Sela remained painfully thin.
“Want me to get her to eat?” Denan asked Mama.
Mama didn’t trust men; her cruel father and abusive husband had made sure of that. But Denan had proven himself worthy of her regard in a thousand tiny ways. From his gentleness and patience with her children to his adoration of her daughter.
So it meant a lot to Larkin when Mama didn’t hesitate to smile her thanks at Denan.
But Unger stepped up. “Let me, my lady. Our king has so much he needs to do.”
Mama reluctantly nodded. Unger took the baby, crouched before Sela, and murmured a few words. In a moment, he had her seated at the table, dutifully eating. He brought Denan paper and a quill. Her husband set about writing up calculations of supplies a sizable army would need.
“Thank you, Unger,” Mama said. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Glowing with the praise, the man gave a little bow. Mama searched through her kit until she came up with a numbing salve, which she smeared on the wound. Then she threaded a bone needle with catgut. Watching her, Larkin’s stomach knotted.
“I can play the pain away for Her Majesty while Lady Pennice stitches,” Unger offered.
At first, Larkin’s overwrought brain couldn’t fathom who Her Majesty was. Then she realized he meant her. “I— Thank you, Unger.”
Setting Brenna down on her blanket, Unger took out his strange pipe—curved like a ram’s horn—and played, his song high and piercing. It carried through Larkin, finding an ancient part of herself. She imagined her soul was a shooting star caught up in a body. And when she laid that body down again, her soul would continue its journey across the never-ending night sky.
The music stopped. Larkin waited for it to pick up again. Waited for the sound to bear her up and away. But it did not. Instead, she came back to herself. Feeling dizzy, she looked down to see twelve neat stitches, black against the paleness of her skin.
Another scar. “At least that means less freckles.” She laughed at her own joke, not caring that no one else did. Her arm burned and throbbed—but the pain was a distant thing. Rainbows flared from every source of light, and her head felt floaty and heavy at once. “I think the medicine is working.”
Denan took the tincture she’d drunk and sniffed it, a single eyebrow rising in amusement. “Yes, I think it is.”
Mama picked up Brenna. “How’s my baby? Have you been a good girl while I patched up your sister?” Brenna smiled a huge, gummy smile and cooed. “That’s right. Brenna is Mama’s good baby.”
Brenna nuzzled Mama’s neck and grinned at Larkin. Ancestors, babies were such a light in the dark. Sela finished her food and left without a word. Mama sadly watched her go. Unger cleared away the dirty dishes and left.
Fully armored, Tam stepped into the room and set down a large chest. “Denan, the chief constable is here, as you requested.” He bent down to eye level with Brenna and tickled her feet. She rewarded him with a startled laugh.
Larkin sniffed. “She’s such a sweet, precious thing. I love her so much.”
Tam shot Denan a baffled look. Denan mimed drinking.
“I’m not drunk!” She tried hard not to slur. Gah, she sounded like her useless father. “It’s the medicine.” Medicine that obviously had White Tree sap inside. It promoted healing and reduced pain, but there wasn’t a lot of it to go around. It was usually reserved for soldiers in the forest.
Denan grabbed the paper full of calculations. “We’re going to need to start rationing the populace and have quotas for each family to produce so many pounds of dried fish, fruit, and nuts. Whatever grains we can get too.”
“Let the quartermaster deal with that,” Tam said.
Groaning tiredly, Denan pushed to his feet. “Let me get my armor.”
Tam started after him. “I’ll help milady with her straps.”
Denan punched Tam’s arm. Always teasing each other.
“Where are you going?” Larkin asked.
“To fetch my armor and start preparations
for the campaign,” Denan said patiently.
Her fingers tightened around the armrests. “What if the assassin’s after you?”
“They didn’t target me before,” he said gently.
“Doesn’t mean they won’t,” she said. “Especially now that you’re king.”
“I’ll see some of your enchantresses shield me,” he said.
“I’m coming with you.” She tried to stand, but her legs weren’t working right.
“No you aren’t,” Mama said.
Denan placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “When you’re up to it.”
He was right, curse him. She collapsed in the chair. “Fine. I didn’t want to go anyway.”
Tam nudged Denan with his shoulder. “Come on, man.”
The two of them headed to Denan and Larkin’s chambers. Mama watched Tam go with narrowed eyes. She might trust Denan, but that trust hadn’t extended to his personal guard yet.
“He’s a good man,” Larkin said.
“Your father was a good man too. For the first few years.”
At the mention of her father, Larkin rubbed her tired eyes. He’d been writing her letters, asking to meet Brenna and see Sela. Mama refused. Larkin didn’t blame her. As far as she was concerned, Harben had lost the rights to his children when he’d abandoned them for his new wife.
And yet he’d helped Larkin when she’d asked for it—at great risk to himself. It didn’t make what he’d done right, but it did make her feelings more conflicted.
“Hold her while I wash her swaddling.” Mama set Brenna in her arms and left.
Brenna was all simple smiles, baby coos and giggles, and the sweet smell of new life. She didn’t worry about the mulgars and wraiths lurking in the Forbidden Forest. Didn’t worry about curses or bargains or life and death. All she worried about was warm milk and cuddles and clean clothes.
Larkin stroked her back and blew bubbles against her feet. She took a bite of her food and suddenly realized how hungry she was. Her favorite part was the waternips. They were the size of grapes, the flesh as white as new snow. The flavor was juicy and mild, with a bit of heat at the end. She was nearly done when Tam and Denan stepped back into the room.
Instead of his embellished gold armor, Denan wore the dull set, riddled with pounded-out dents and deep scratches. Both were family heirlooms; both had caged dozens of living heartbeats. But this armor had felt those heartbeats still.
Wraith King Page 5
